At home, dad hovered over the stove. With his stringy black hair and black dress shirt, looking like a spider hanging around above the pots. Hanging, hanging. Hanging all pale and grayed from work and life and a kid, like I was, that he never saw enough.
I toed off my Vans by the door, laces still tied and socks still on my feet, shrugging off my coat. I shivered, feeling cold deep, deep down.
The house was just a lot of gaps. Gaps between the doors and walls, gaps between dad and me, gaps between my legs and my chest and my lips. Gaps.
"You know," he started, touching a wooden spoon with a puddle of uncooked rice to his lips. He flinched when the steaming goop met his lips. "I think we should have a talk about coming home so late."
I shrugged, sitting down at the dinner table. I folded my hands neatly in my lap, declaring thumb-War, fighting chipped nails. "I was working on a project."
"You always say that! What is it this time? The goldfish?" dad argued sarcastically like a sassy teenager. "I'm the parent here. Okay? I decide what time my daughter is to be home."
I get up, legs jelly, feeling nervous. Words, rude words, were at the edges of my lips, too. "No, dad. It wasn't about that stupid book again. I have an actual project for school for twenty-five percent of my year mark and it's important. And, besides, my partner thinks that the goldfish are visually inspiring."
Then I'm gone. I'm up there with the Japanese goldfish and Billie Eilish. My partner. My friend. Only, I'm actually in bed, kicking my duvet because it's one of those warm days in winter. I realize it's because I'm upset. I'm a warm kind of upset.
There's a timid dad kind of knock on my bedroom door. He sits beside me, offering steaming rice and spicy curry that he never made before but it tastes great and he talks about how sorry he is and that he's proud of me for making a new friend and being invested in school. And I just sit there, sinking all warm and loved into my duvet that's the perfect temperature for my skin.